“That’s weak.” I hit the gas again. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘clean kill’? Hitmen take it very seriously.”
“Man.” Jumbo unrolled his window and breathed fresh air. “Do you think that the Unmentionables–”
I gave him a cross look.
“You know, things that cheat death?” I nodded.
“Do you think they are easy to kill? They’re not, man. They have all sorts of backup plans and ways to protect the only thing that they have left, their stupid existence.”
“This was all a setup?” I questioned.
“Not a setup,” Jumbo explained. “A test. Death could have wiped up Zombie Pete, but we wanted to see what you could do before we made you an intern.” I took a moment to digest it all. I had two options. I could have a hissy fit about it all, or just deal with the fact that Death and his sidekick could have made me the next meal for a bunch of literal zombies.
Real clever. Ha,ha, you got me. Besides, it sounded like they enjoyed the show.
“So I’m in then?” I smashed my cigarette butt in the van’s ashtray.
“You have some things to learn, dude.” Jumbo put up a finger. “But we like your style. The rooftop thing was pretty pedestrian, but the fact that you took out the guitar before finishing the job was beautiful. Everyone was returned their soul.”
“About that.” I flicked on my blinker. “What happened back there?”
Jumbo looked back at Death before returning his stare to me. “It’s complicated.” He shrugged. “Getting your soul back is kind of a big deal. The audience pretty much went into shock.”
“Are those zombies going to eat the crowd?” I asked.
“Nah,” Jumbo asserted. “Those things were the byproduct of being at too many of Zombie Pete’s shows. You know—groupies. They only had a shelf life of a few minutes after the guitar was destroyed.”
“Alright.” I slowed along the expressway exit ramp. “What now?”
I watched from the rearview mirror. Death dug in his cloak and pulled out a sticker pad and sharpie. I heard the squeaks of the marker tip as he wrote. He extended his skeletal hand between Jumbo and me. A new name badge stuck to his finger.
Hello, My name is Buck. I’m the new intern. Ask me for coffee.
“Death and I will video-chat you in the morning.” Jumbo removed his seatbelt. “Make sure to have your computer on.”
“My flight leaves early,” Death warned in his usual morose tone. “Set your alarm.”
“You’ll get your first official target,” Jumbo instructed. “Until then, go home.”
“Copy.” I stopped at an intersection a block from my apartment.
“Be ready for an early video-chat,” Jumbo grinned.
“Out of curiosity, how long is this internship going to be?” I inquired as I turned to face them. Both Jumbo and Death were gone. “Again. Seriously?” I grumbled as I checked the back of the van. It was empty. I turned back to face the road. The light went from red to green. I pressed the petal and drove. There was nowhere to go but forward. Whether I liked it or not, I was now Death’s intern.
6
Every few nights during Operation Enduring Freedom, enemies programmed crude timers on rocket launchers aimed at our mountain camp. Around 0300 hours, the screech of rocket propelled grenades screamed toward base. Ninety-nine percent of these attacks were off target, and the enemy was always long gone. As time went on my internal alarm clock trained itself to jolt me to life just before the attacks and I’d stir from my cot to listen. Only the rocket alarm clock never went away. Sixteen years later and I’m still waking up, waiting to hear the explosions.
The V.A. had prescribed Zoloft and said it would go away.
I jostled upright. The clock on my nightstand glared3:03AM in its bright glowing numerals. After shuffling for that first cup of coffee, I started my routine. I went down to the cruddy gym in my building. The outdated treadmill and corroded weights still did the trick in getting my blood pumping, even after my resurrection. It was a hard pill to swallow, dying and then returning. I stared at the tired walls and lumpy punching bag hanging under buzzing shop lights. They’d always been constants. They were strangers to me now. Too much changed.
I’d finished my routine but didn’t feel winded in the slightest. Curious, I did an entire extra set of weights and another ten minutes on the stair master. Still nothing. I wrote it off as a busy mind evading a body’s scorn and moved on. I returned to my apartment and started breakfast. After a second coffee, two stale donuts, and six cigarettes, all I could do was buy time until Jumbo called. So, I did a little online research on the Grim Reaper.
According to an occult blogger, Well_Hung_in_Tombstone, the Grim Reaper frequented a diverse stretch of global cultures from East Asia to Latin America. There were a few widely accepted similarities in his myth.
First, he was a holy agent created by the top being, be it God or Gaia, to do a dirty job. He could take different forms but tended to don the all famous black death robe. His embrace could slay any mortal, but it was his scythe that could unmake even the devil. While the world feared him, scholars understood that he protected the afterlife from unbalance. Should his realm ever become unstable, it could halt existence.
Well, that slightly explained the stick up his ass.
Finally, at 5, just as the sun was starting to rise, my laptop chimed. I activated the video-chat. The digital screen painted a picture of Jumbo and Death huddled over Death’s kitchen table. Bags hung under Jumbo’s unshielded eyes. He massaged his eyelids before placing on his glasses. Death stood behind him with a Hawaiian shirt buttoned over his cloak.
“Good morning,” greeted Jumbo as he straightened out the camera on his computer.
“Glad to see you didn’t fail your first task, rookie. Punctuality is everything.”
“I’m an overachiever,” I said with a straight face.
“So after careful consideration.” Jumbo shuffled through some papers. “We’ve decided to give you a very distinguished target. Buck, you’ll be hunting a wily Unmentionable that may have been tampering with our Death-Program.”
“Death program?” I leaned into the computer’s glow.
“Yeah, dude.” Jumbo clicked on his keyboard. “It’s a special integrated system we created to manage the everyday deaths around the world. It handles the six-hundred-thousand or so casualties a day. Now, part of the reason you won the fate-lottery is because you’re a Chicago native. There’s been an abundance of unscripted deaths in that area, and we think your target might be up to no good.”
“Wait,” I interjected. “You’re telling me that a Chicagoan has figured out how to corrupt the system? I’m shocked.”
“Sarcasm?” Jumbo asked.
“It’s one of the services I offer,” I lit up another cigarette to help me concentrate. “Alright, tell me about the target.”
“Already on it.” Jumbo clicked a button. “Check your e-mail.”
“Yahoo or G-mail?” I asked.
“Come on,” Jumbo laughed. “Who am I, your ninety-year-old auntie? No one uses Yahoo.”
“Right.” I opened a new window and checked my e-mails. There was one new message with an attachment from the user, ICanSeeYourPixels. I downloaded the attachment. The file opened and a profile came up. My eyes grew as I saw the name.
“His name is John Dillinger,” Jumbo said through my laptop speaker. “Heard of him?”
“You have got to be kidding me.” I took a puff of my smoke. “Like, the John Dillinger?”
“Born in Indianapolis in 1903,” Jumbo recited the profile in front of me. “And supposedly died in Chicago in 1934.” I took a moment to scroll through the rest of his profile while Jumbo continued. “In life he was charged with bank robbery, murder, assault, assault of an officer, and grand theft auto. But it’s his afterlife that’s really juicy.”
“Wait,” I sputtered in confusion. “It says here that he was shot down in the alley of the Biograph Theatre.”
“He was,” Jumbo confirmed. I looked up at the screen. Jumbo nodded. “Dillinger knew that the FBI was on his trail, so he set out to find an ancient Romanian vampire who could change him. No one knows the deal Dillinger cut, but eventually he became undead. He then arranged for it to look like he was being betrayed by some lady friends. Women from Romania to be precise.” Jumbo raised his brows up and down. “He lured three agents into the theater’s alley and tricked them into opening fire. After the coroner pronounced him dead, of which he technically was, he was taken back to Indiana where he was buried. But being a vampire has its perks, Dillinger dug himself out and had a clean slate from there.”
I scrolled down and stared at the black and white mug shot of John Dillinger. He had slicked back hair, shortened near his big ears, a devil-thin mustache and a strong cleft chin. However, it was his stare and smirk that hit a chord. I had the strangest feeling that I’d met him before, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? That’s when it dawned on me. There was a modern security camera photo of Dillinger in a casino. His hair was shorter and his mustache even thinner. He wore a snug navy business suit with a skinny red tie. Most importantly, his skin had grown ten shades more pallid, and his bright green eyes turned gold. This was the man that Idaho-Face hired me to kill. This was the guy that murdered me.
“Son of a piss wizard,” I blurted.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jumbo.
Death stopped humming Jimmy Buffet over Jumbo’s shoulder.
That’s when my street smarts kicked in. I didn’t want to lie to my new employer, who was the only reason I wasn’t burning in Hell’s furnace. Then again, Dillinger being my last target seemed to be an awful big coincidence. Jumbo and Death had lied to me before. How could I be sure this wasn’t a similar setup? Maybe I’d confess a little later when I had my bearings, but for now, I decided to hold my cards close to my chest.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” I rebounded. “There’s nothing on this list that tells me how to kill a vampire. I mean, are they allergic to sunlight like in the movies? Should I just have Giordano’s deliver him a deep dish with extra garlic?” I cross my fingers that they didn’t see through my bullshit. Jumbo stared at the computer monitor for a moment. He turned back to Death before shaking his head. Uh oh.
“Man, rookie, who ties your shoelaces for you?” Jumbo rubbed his forehead. “I’ve already told you that Old Lilith can kill anything. And yes.” Jumbo’s voice calmed. “Dillinger is allergic to sunlight. But the rest of the lore and superstition depends on what type of vampire they are. You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”
“Great.” I feigned a sigh while I finished scanning the attachment. “Alright, anything else I should know? Any rocks that can be unturned?”
“If we had any leads,” Jumbo answered. “Death would have taken care of this guy long ago.”
“Alright,” I said, picking roof soot from the bar out of my fingernails. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”
“Good boy,” Death stopped humming Margaritaville to jeer as if talking to a puppy.
I scrunched my face but bit my tongue. My life currently felt like a test I didn’t study for.
“Now, don’t mess this up. I’ll be gone one week.”
“I hope,” I said dryly. “That things aren’t too painful for us while you’re away.”
“Life is pain, Highness,” Death declared in a dramatic voice. “Anyone who says differently is selling something.”
“Sure, Westley,” I snorted, recognizing The Princess Bride reference.
“As for you,” Death said as he patted Jumbo on the head. “There’re pizza puffs in the freezer.” Jumbo looked to the computer with a frown.
“Alright man, well I’m going to let you go.” Jumbo clicked his mouse. “E-mail or text me if you need anything.” And with that, the screen went black.
Deja Poo, I feel like I heard this shit before.
I stared at my laptop and wondered who the bad guy was here.
Was it Idaho-Face?
I mean, she had been the first to hire me to kill Dillinger. Plus, her offer was way too good to be true. On the other hand, Death and Jumbo were definitely leaving a suspicious number of breadcrumbs.
First, how was it that the guy that killed me just so happened to be the man they brought me back to destroy? Second, we were on a need-to-know basis, which typically means that some heinous bull was going down. Then that wicked little voice in my head reminded me that technically, I was the bad guy here. After all, I was the guy going around killing people for others, be they evil geniuses or otherwise. I filed the unanswerable questions in my head as things to look into and then began planning the hit.
7
John Herbert Dillinger, head of the Dillinger Terror Gang, had robbed twenty-four documented banks in the early 1930s. He was known as Jackrabbit John for his guile in eluding capture. He’d escaped prison twice and could have likely stayed free had he not been addicted to the lifestyle he’d carved for himself. Some admired the bank robber as a Robin Hood figure due to his defiant bravado documented in the media. That is until he was accused of murdering a police officer in East Chicago, which quickly launched him up the ranks to Public Enemy Number One. Dillinger went into hiding, staying with girlfriends and fellow criminals in hopes that the nationwide manhunt for him would eventually come to a halt. He even went so far as to have two warts, a scar, and his dimples removed with plastic surgery. Dillinger continued to hide, but according to history, his lust for Cubs games, pretty ladies, and movie theaters ultimately caused for him to be gunned down in an alley at the Biograph Theater in 1934. It’s rumored that only a few days after Dillinger had been buried, his grave was dug up in Crown Hill Cemetery.
I thought about Idaho-Face’s job again. All the details she’d given to me had to be a damn lie, but she had provided one crucial piece of information that Jumbo and Death didn’t: Dillinger’s apartment. The place was in Old Town’s merchant area on Wells Street, snuggly hidden between a few small businesses over a four-story nail salon. I decided to have another visit. This time I’d be ready for that scab sucker. I dressed in a casual business suit with no tie, packing Thing One and Thing Two under my grey jacket. I’d have to disassemble Old Lilith again, but she was definitely coming with. In fact, I think I’d wear her as closely as whitey tighties from this point forward. After I took her apart, I packed the supernatural rifle in my computer satchel that I slung over my shoulder.
I’d left my black sedan reserved at the murder scene in front of Dillinger’s place. It wasn’t even lunch time, so I had hours of sunlight on my side if Johnnie Jackrabbit happened to be stupid enough to return. I took the green line, then transferred to the blue to get to Dillinger’s place. The sedan waited for me in front with several tickets on the windshield. I’d have to transfer fake license plates when I returned home. After scrapping the tickets, I kept up with my investigation. Dillinger’s apartment had an open-door policy, with no doorman or security, so getting through the main entrance was a piece of cake.
As I entered the building, I took a look at the offices across the street where I’d been shot down. The perfectly angled shooter’s nest, conveniently abandoned office, and close proximity alone should have been an obvious sign that this was a set up. If only I hadn’t taken that stupid job.
John’s mailbox was marked Frank Sullivan. I went up the stairs and to his door as quietly as possible. Once I saw the coast was clear, I dug my gloved hands out of my pockets and into my computer satchel. The building was old, so I assumed the warder’s keys I’d purchased at my local hardware store would pick the lock just fine. $19.99 at O Malley’s Home Improvements. I tried each key until finally one pick did the job. Once the lock clicked, I tapped the door open with my shoe and crept inside.
Dillinger’s place was quiet and dark. The drapes had been drawn, so I left the door behind me a crack open to shine some light in from the hallway. His home had glossy white walls and very l
ittle decor. I crept further to find that the place appeared to be a studio. It had a wide living area with a miniature kitchen that hadn’t been touched in some time, and an open door that led to a closet size bathroom. The only furniture was an outdated record player with Ella Fitzgerald on the wheel and a six-foot long Christmas green rubber storage container. I pulled open the drapes in the place so that the studio was bathed in sunlight. Cautiously, I pried open the container. There was a pillow and blanket inside, but no Gentleman John.
“Damn it,” I swore. I dug through the blankets and pillow for any clues. I found one. There was a sheet of crumbled magazine paper with rentable storage facility listings. A cheap converted factory building on the far westside near Midway Airport had been circled in red marker. It looked like Dillinger either hopped around a lot or he was going into the storage business. I continued to check his apartment for more leads or clues of any sort, but came up empty. I closed up Dillinger’s place and headed back to my car, which already had a new ticket on it. I removed the city’s love letter, punched the storage address into my phone’s GPS, and headed west.
The building was close to the Metra tracks in an area once known as an industrial zone. Time had worn the bustling neighborhood down to near extinction. The streets were eroded, the sidewalks exchanged for gravel and the only traffic was semi-trucks that delivered inventory.
Midway Airport’s traffic whooshed from above. After finding Dillinger’s building, I parked across the gravel road near another decayed storage facility and observed.
The four-floor storage facility was made of dull bargain metal. It had a large pebble lot with a single silver Audi A6 parked near the main entrance. I planted myself at an empty neighboring property and continued to canvas Dillinger’s complex. It was only a football field away. I nearly face palmed when I noticed two out of place gargoyles perched on its front corners. It didn’t get more vampirish than that. Besides the stoner twins, there was nothing out of the ordinary. For nearly two hours I waited, marking possible places to force entry, positions with a clear line of sight, and escape routes. After noticing a lack of activity in the area, I hopped out of my car and walked over to the building.
A Dead-End Job Page 6